


Better

by OhAine



Series: Memoirs of a Pathologist [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10070699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: She deserves everything good in this world, and he fully intends to be the man who gives it to her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaybeItsJustMyType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/gifts).



> For my darling Kiki who as a beta fixes my mistakes, and as a friend reminds me that, in life, it's okay to make them.
> 
> Unbeta'd. I own nothing but the typos.
> 
> Written in response to that - frankly absurd - hashtag, and can be seen as a sequel to 'Bright are the stars that shine' (part 2 of the Simple Chemistry series), though can be read as a stand alone.

 

 

oOo

_‘Find what you love and let it kill you._

_Let it drain you of your all…_

_…For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly,_

_But it’s much better to be killed by a lover.’_

_-Charles Bukowski_

oOo

 

“Molly? Molly, what are you doing?”

 

Flushed from the tips of her ears to the valley between her breasts, Molly looks exactly like she could eat him alive. Lips parted, her tongue darts out to taste the fine sheen of dewy perspiration on her upper lip. There’s a dangerous gleam, razor sharp, in her possessive glare.

 

She’s practically salivating at the sight of him.

 

With a near brutal press of lips, Molly licks her way into his mouth, laying claim to him. Sherlock whines, gives himself over to the kiss, his hands seeking her skin in a reflexive response. Her insistence causes a rush of arousal: blood and heat pooling between his legs. The feral scent of her curls and twists its way down his spine.

 

Impatiently grabbing the waistband of his trousers, she drags him backwards down the hall of the Baker Street flat toward their bedroom. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 

It is a bit. Though he wonders if they’ll make it to the bed on this occasion, or if he’s about to be tackled to the floor - God knows it wouldn’t be the first time this week. Two days ago they’d ended up in the bathroom rubbing against each other, still in their underwear, enthusiastically groping while they kissed.  Molly on her back, knees open, Sherlock had come in his pants like a teenager, and _fuck_ , it was mind-bendingly good.

 

“I’m on a case,” he manages to get out between ravenous kisses. The protest is a token at best. In fact, it could possibly be considered hypocritical in light of the nascent erection stirring in his designer pants.

 

“Don’t care. God, Sherlock. You look completely fuckable today.”  Molly snatches his mobile and tosses it on to the passageway floor as they stumble toward the bedroom. The look in her eyes is wild and hungry. _Mine,_ it says _, now_ and _yes._

 

“But, my phone-”

 

“I don’t give a tiny rat’s arse about your phone, Sherlock.”

 

Both hands on his chest, he’s pushed over the threshold of their room, and onto the bed.

 

“Trousers off.” She growls, prowling toward him, clumsily kicking off her shoes, and practically ripping the buttons from her blouse – _ping!_ – they ricochet off every hard surface. Her skirt goes flying into the air, soon followed by a bra and torn knickers.

 

“Now, Sherlock. I don’t have the patience to be polite today.”

 

“I- I-” he stammers, fingers fumbling with buttons, the zip - finally co-operating - comes down. “I’m going as quickly as I can.”

 

“Not quick enough.” She swots his hand away, and pulls trousers and pants down to his knees in one go. Her breathing speeds up as she devours him with her eyes.

 

His cock, only half hard yet, lies against his thigh. Molly, naked, drops to the floor between his spread legs at the edge of the bed, and takes the warm, pink flesh into her mouth. Hollowing her cheeks, she sucks him down.

 

Sherlock’s efforts to finish undressing are abandoned when she presses him to the roof of her mouth and works her tongue up and down his hardening shaft. It stretches and grows as she strokes his balls with one hand, his perineum with the other. Eyes rolling back in his head at the intensity of the way she’s taking him, _“Jesus fuck,”_ he gasps, twitching and writhing, fisting the sheets trying to get purchase as hurricane Hooper makes landfall.

 

“God, your mouth Molly,” he manages to say between incoherent whimpers. “Your beautiful mouth.”

 

Within seconds her throat is suckling the head with every swallow, and Molly pulls off with a loud pop. Briefly, she considers his cock, deems it now fit for purpose, and straddles his hips, rubbing up against him. Between her legs, she’s positively _drenched_.

 

And, _Oh God_ , he wants to be inside her, feel himself sheathed in her as she tightens around him, squeezing and pumping his cock. He’s forced to bite down on his lip to contain the desperate sounds that are trying to escape.

 

“I’m going to ride you now, Sherlock,” she grasps his stiff erection and guides him in, her pert breasts bouncing as she fucks him in a fast paced rhythm that renders them both instantly breathless. “And you’re going to let me. Because this is Your. Damn. Fault. ” Each of the last three words punctuated by a hard roll of her hips. “Do you hear me?”

 

“Ye- Yes-s,” he manages to pant out on hitched breath, gaining enough control of his facilities to remember to put his very good hands to use. Sitting up as best he can, he steadies her in his lap, one hand on her back, the other slipping between them.

 

“Oh, that’s it, you hot piece of ass,” Molly groans shamelessly, sliding up until only the tip is still inside, then sinking back down the length of him. “Yeah. Like that. Give it to me,” she chokes, gulping in air.

 

There’s a scrape of teeth over her nipple, tongue flicking, then lips sucking as he mouths over her collarbone and jaw. Hot and wet, his tongue strokes over her lips. Their hips push together frantically and Molly expels a litany of wonderfully depraved suggestions about the things she wants him to do. He tells her in detail, obscene and crude, of how he’ll oblige.

 

Sweetly, filthily, she says, “I’m almost there. Keep fucking me. Don’t. Stop.”

 

A hand on the back of his neck, Molly kisses him feverishly, her tongue invading his mouth. Caught between her teeth, she pulls on his bottom lip and he moans loudly, hips jerking.

 

Her lust increasing his, he redoubles his efforts, thrusting into her slick, open body. Bearing down on to his hand, she keens every time her clit crashes against his oh so clever fingers. Grinding against them, she urges him on with intensely satisfied noises.

 

“Harder…” Molly wraps herself around him, fingers curling into his damp hair. “Please, Sherlock. Just keep fucking me.”

 

Skin loudly slaps against skin as the pace escalates.

 

The hand on her back moves. Blunt fingernails lightly drag across her soft arse, scratching gently, then one digit slides into the cleft of her backside, and he presses inside her as she clings to him. He’s everywhere at the same time, the stimulation just right. Arching against each other, the tempo becomes faster and faster. It takes only seconds for her to throw her head back and scream, high and sharp.

_“Sherlock…”_ she cries, and he tells her, “That’s it. Come, Molly, come.”

 

Pleasure rips through her, _finally_. Starbursts of light ignite behind her squeezed shut eyelids, her skin feels electrified and her lungs expel the hot air that’s burning her from the inside out. As she breaks apart, Sherlock holds her tightly against his body, driving up into her pulsing slick and moist heat. The contractions from her orgasm pull deliciously at his cock. His balls drawing up, he lets go. Coming hard, his semen leaves his cock in hot spurts that cause him to shudder and shake with the force of it.

 

The aftershocks of her climax are accompanied by deep, drawn-out moans that he swallows with messy and satiated kisses.

 

Foreheads eventually coming to rest on each other’s shoulder, he whispers how much he loves her, how magnificent she is. Softly kissing still, he gently rolls her onto her back, landing somewhere in the middle of the bed. Stripping off the rest of his clothes, he collapses beside her in an undignified, exhausted heap.

 

Time between her arrival home and climax: 2 minutes 37 seconds. A new record.

 

“Give it to me?” He teases. The small smile that’s twitching on the corner of his mouth turns into a full blown grin when he asks, “Hot piece of ass? Really? That’s the most stimulating dirty talk you could come up with to incite my passion?”

 

Sherlock’s back spasms when he rolls over to kiss her shoulder, nose and mouth to her skin. Something about the way she smells of the city, of spring and of them both always makes him feel like he wants to breathe her in when they kiss.

 

“Sorry,” a forearm thrown over her eyes she smirks, not even a little abashed. Molly’s body is soft and looser, most of the tension drained away. “Verbal acuity goes out the window when I’m this bloody horny.”

 

Her eyes linger on his kiss-swollen lips, Sherlock’s on the heartbeat in her swan-like throat.

 

She shivers softly when he drags his fingers, feather light, over her hummingbird pulse, and he knows it won’t be long before the need will consume them again. Slower next time, he’ll have time for gentle seduction and teasing touches that will drive them both to the brink of madness. An erotic slow burn rather than a blaze.

 

“Evidently.” He agrees. “Do you realise I didn’t even get a _‘Hello Darling, how was your day?’_ out of you before you propelled me down the corridor and had your wicked way with me?”

 

“You can’t complain about it. You’re contractually obliged to shag me, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

His eyebrow quirks up, “Oh? Am I?”

 

“Yes,” she mumbles curling into his neck with a grin, fingers raking through his hair. “I’m certain the Vicar said something about it during the marriage rite.”

 

“I’m sure I’d have noticed if he did. I’m quite observant, you know.”

 

“So I’ve heard.”

 

Kissing the top of her head, he tells her, “You’re going to be the death of me. You do know that?”

 

“ _Noooo_ , _”_ she deadpans, “you’ve pissed plenty of people off. I’m sure someone will get there long before me.”

 

“I meant,” he gives her a camp sideways look, all charming dimples and fake outrage, “your constant demands for athletic sex.”

 

“What can I tell you? I’m a slave to the hormones that incubating your demon spawn is causing me to produce.”

 

“Really? And what was your excuse before I knocked you up?”

 

“Bastard,” she says, playfully poking the ticklish spot under his ribs.

 

“Angel,” he responds, kissing her adorable nose.

 

In his arms she rests. Sherlock sweeps a strand of wayward russet hair away from her face, just marvelling at how beautiful she is, and how lucky he’s been, after the years spent dancing around one another,  to finally, _finally_ , be together. Happy, and so in love.  She is his heart, it beats only for her. He knows that he’ll never be able to have enough of lying next to her, of soft kisses on warm skin, of her voice, her hands, of her frightful cardigans, her cringe worthy jokes, her crooked grin and her perfect lips. Her perfect Mollyness. She deserves everything good in this world, and he fully intends to be the man who gives it to her.

 

For a moment he can barely breathe and he thinks his chest might burst from the soaring of contentment beneath it. But then Molly catches his ear lobe between her teeth, nuzzling his neck suggestively.

 

“Perhaps you’ll give me longer than twenty minutes this time before you expect me to selflessly service your needs again. I’m more than just a sex object for you to chain naked to the bed and use as you see fit.” His faux stoicism is punished with a pinch on his plump bottom.

 

“No you’re not.” Molly mumbles against the laugh that’s rumbling behind his breast bone. “Twenty five minutes.”

 

“Forty, and I’ll do anything you want.”

 

“Thirty, and I’ll let you.”

 

“Deal.”

 

Resting his hand over the gentle swell of her tummy he asks, “Feeling better now?”

 

“Mmm,” Molly hums, beginning to doze off in a post-coital hazy bliss. “Better.”

 

oOo

 

**_New Scotland Yard, 2 minutes and 37 seconds earlier…_ **

 

Dimmock scrubs a hand over his mouth, turns his phone off. Considering the dark screen of the mobile device for a second or two, he puts it in his desk drawer. Then locks it.

 

He shudders softly just thinking about the poor bugger.

 

He’s an experienced copper, he’s seen some ruthless attacks in his time on the Met. But he’s never seen anyone tackled quite like that…

_One thing’s for sure,_ the D.I. decides, _he’s never using FaceTime to consult on a case with Sherlock Holmes **ever** again._


End file.
